The Second Mother-in-Law

The Second Mother-in-law

A woman dressed in a cleaners uniform peeked cautiously into the office of Edward Blackwell, owner of the prestigious Aurora Aesthetics Clinic. Her name was Linda, and she spoke softly, hoping not to annoy her boss.

I heard theres a vacancy for a junior massage therapist.

Edward Blackwell glanced up with a cold, stern look. He was in no mood for interruptions: important talks with investors had just fallen through, and his head throbbed with stress.

And you, armed with your mop, fancy yourself a massage therapist then?

No, but Ive completed online courses. I even wrote up a CV, Linda replied, blushing, handing over a rather crumpled sheet of paper from her pocket.

At that very moment, Blackwells deputy, Simon Lewis, entered the office. Edward, rubbing his temples, snapped:

Simon, what on earth are our cleaners doing wandering into my office whenever they please? Chuck her out. She thinks shes some great therapist! Throw her out and make sure she knows not to come back with such nonsense.

Without waiting for a response, he snatched the CV, tore it to bits and tossed the pieces at Lindas feet.

Biting her lip, Linda crouched down to collect the scraps. Her eyes blurred with tears. Simon unceremoniously led her to the corridor, dragging her past patients and staff, and pushed her into the supply cupboard.

There, perched on the edge of an ancient fire-sand box, Linda collapsed, crying helplessly.

She hadnt dreamed of mopping floors all her life; she worked at Aurora only because the pay was better than at other places. And Mr Blackwell was considered decent, a self-made man, a respected surgeon whod built his own clinic from scratch.

That much was true. Edward Blackwell had grown up in a care home, never having known his parents. Hed spent adulthood searching for any trace of them, to no avail. Still, hed succeeded: first as a surgeon, then as a master of aesthetics. Even West End actresses and socialites travelled to London just to see him, paying hefty fees.

That was why Linda took the chance when she heard about the vacancy. She wanted to be a massage therapist. Shed read textbooks and completed as much of a medical college course as she could on her own. Unfortunately, without a formal diploma, she couldnt get a proper job. She started saving for proper training, but her husband ran off with all their savings, leaving her alone with their little girl.

It later turned out that Tom was a petty crook, an imposter whod spun a charming tale about himself. The divorce dragged on; he never showed up to court. For her daughter Emma, Linda endured everything, and thats when life became a struggle.

Finding work as a single mother wasnt easy. They lived, the three of themLinda, Emma, and her mum Margaretcrammed into a tiny flat, sometimes scraping by on Margarets pension. Margaret, once a gymnast and always an optimist, took on the care of her granddaughter, allowing Linda to find any work she could.

Trying to reach her dream, Linda finally managed a low-cost massage course. The certificate Blackwell had shredded was from that very course.

Linda wiped her tears, got up, and went back to cleaning. People glanced at her, whispering. But at home, her mum greeted her with good news: Emma had won a drawing competition at nursery. Her little girl had real talent, and Linda always tried to buy her good paints and paper. Emma had already started preparatory classes at art school, which was a joy to Linda.

The mop bucket felt impossibly heavy that day, until Mr Andrews, the caretaker and the only person at the clinic who treated Linda kindly, took it from her. He was older, knew Blackwells background, and seemed to quietly mock the mans pretensions.

Mr Andrews never belittled Linda. On the contrary, he brought her pastries on weekends, offered encouragement, and was the very person who gave Linda courage enough to approach Blackwell with her humble CV.

Seeing the caretaker again, Linda burst into tears.

Dont worry, love. Things will turn around.

Maybe I shouldnt have bothered, Linda sniffled. Ive only embarrassed myself.

Blackwells not himself today. Try again another time, he suggested.

Theyve told me not to go near him again, Linda replied gloomily. I thought I might get a break, climb up from nothing like he did. But hes just arrogant now, proud of his diploma.

The caretaker just shrugged. Linda put her things away and headed home, worrying how shed stretch what little money she had. Emma wanted a new doll, and Linda hadnt a clue how shed afford it.

Home didnt feel like itself that evening. Margaret sat in the lounge trying not to cry. Lindas heart droppedher mother was a strong woman, and if she wept, it meant something terrible had happened.

Mum, whats wrong? Linda asked, frightened.

Oh, its nothing, Margaret tried to wave her off.

Mum, please, just tell me, Linda pressed.

Her mother broke down.

I was at the doctors todaya required check for the local youth theatre group. They found something. I need an operation. Otherwise, a year or less. The queues huge. We cant pay for private treatment in London, let alone all the tests. The journey, expenses oh, it seems my times up.

Dont say that, Mum, Linda sprang up. Well figure something out.

On your cleaners wage and my pension? Margaret laughed bitterly. Theres only so much you can do with nothing.

Linda didnt sleep that night, thinking up options. By morning, shed decided: shed take the risk and try Blackwell once more.

But that day, she wasnt even allowed inside the clinic. Shed been made redundantheadcount reduction. They handed her three weeks pay at minimum wage and sent her on her way.

Mr Andrews made Linda write down his phone number before she left. She jotted it down without thought, wondering what to do next. She could scrape by for a month, but then?

Linda was not one to give up. She told her mum shed decided to leave the clinic of her own accord, then searched everywhere for jobs. Without a qualification, pay was meagre everywhere. Suddenly, she saw an advert: a live-in carer needed. No need for nursing credentials, just someone to cook, clean, and help around the home.

Linda sighed. It was no more embarrassing than cleaning at the clinic. She submitted her CV. An hour later, the agency called back: the employer was a wealthy, solitary lady.

Linda was asked to come in, bringing her work papers and basic credentials. Soon, she was sitting opposite the agency manager, Mrs Tamara Graham.

Ill be frank, Mrs Graham said coolly. The client is difficult. Youll be her tenth carernobody lasts.

Linda felt tense, but kept quiet.

Youve probably heard the nameMrs Hazel Carrington. Thats a stage name, of course; she changed it long ago. Once the leading lady at the Royal Opera. Temperamental but extremely wealthy; its said she inherited plenty from generous admirers.

Honestly, I dont mind who she is, Linda said quietly. Im not really in a position to pick and choose.

If you have children, noteMrs Carrington cant stand kids. Nor pets. She gets around with a walker, but prefers to be wheeled about. Trial periods three months. If you manage, youll have a years contract and double the pay.

Linda nodded silently. Even this wage was twice what shed made before. It was her chance to save Margaret.

She was to start the very next morning. Work began at seven.

That evening, Linda tried to look up Hazel Carrington online. She found some faded Overture programmes a decade out of date. The photos showed an ample woman with coal-black hair and hawkish eyes, but they didnt prepare Linda for reality.

A security guard opened the door. Mrs Carrington owned a grand Georgian townhouse in the heart of Londona world away from Lindas experience.

What are you gawping at? Looking for something to steal? crowed a scratchy voice.

Into the plush hallway rolled an expensive electric wheelchair. Seated in it, a petite, sharp-eyed woman, so thin she looked like a fledgling fallen from the nest.

Good morning, Mrs Carrington, Linda stammered.

Speak up. Dont mumble. Keep your hands where I can see them, not shoved in your pockets. And dont forget your shoe coversI have bespoke parquet flooring. Theres a basket over there. Put them on and hurry up. Im waiting for breakfast.

Linda quickly slipped on the special shoe covers, more like surgical hats than the usual plastic ones, and hurried over.

Brush my hair. Carefully, barked Mrs Carrington. Not thoseHeavens! Are you thick? Take off the net. Then fetch my wig and brush that, too.

Sorry, your instructions werent clear, Linda said, flustered.

Ugh, another useless one, grumbled the lady. Where do you people come from, honestly? Bring me tea. Im thirsty. At once.

Linda hurried to the kitchen.

Stop stomping! The floor shakes under you! Walk softeryoure getting on my nerves! Mrs Carrington screeched after her.

Mrs Carrington examined the tea Linda brought her for a long time, tilting the glass to the light as if expecting poison. Suddenly, she grimaced and flung the hot contents in Lindas face.

You jostled my elbow. Your own fault.

Linda took a deep breath.

Right. May I wash my face?

Theres a staff bathroom on the ground floor, by the door, Mrs Carrington snapped, then squinted. Well? Arent you going to answer me?

Why bother? Linda replied, calmly. Im starting to wonder how many tricks you have up your sleeve.

Ha. Go on, then. Towels are in there. Guest pyjamas too. Put your own clothes in the wash.

Linda did as told. All day, Mrs Carrington needled her, found fault, and set minor traps. Linda soon realised it was a test. So she stayed quiet and carried on, deciding the ladys imagination for torment would wear out before Lindas patience.

By evening, Mrs Carrington really was tired and became almost civil. Before bed, Linda gave her a gentle massage, waited for her to fall asleep, and then, after taking care of the wig, left.

The night shift greeted Linda the next morning, grinning mischievously.

What did you do to her yesterday? Shes still asleep like a baby. The housekeeper told me.

Nothing special, Linda shrugged. Maybe she was just exhausted.

That morning, Mrs Carrington declared that Linda dressed dreadfully and would never land a man because she didnt wear make-up. Linda just nodded, preparing the morning wash. At least the wig was easier now.

Then Mrs Carrington demanded a visit from her favourite manicurist, insisted on being dressed in a Japanese kimono-style robe, and instructed Linda to wheel her into the boudoir.

The reason for these antics soon became clear.

After lunch, a distinguished gentleman arrived: tall, slim, with the poise of a dancer. Mrs Carrington introduced him as old friend Arthur and told Linda to serve coffee.

Linda nervously made it in the expensive machine and brought it perfectly. In company, Mrs Carrington behaved herself.

Near evening, she suddenly asked, What did you do to me last night?

A massage, Linda replied quietly.

Are you qualified? Mrs Carrington demanded sharply.

Not formally. I studied on my own.

Right. Give me one again, then, the lady relented.

Linda finished the evening with another massage. Mrs Carrington fell asleep; Linda went home.

Three months of probation passed quickly. Linda was granted just one day off a week and barely saw Emma, but now she could afford for Margaret to rest; her mother was tiring fast, and the theatre work was too physically demanding.

Gradually, Lindas relationship with Mrs Carrington grew easier. The old lady was studying Linda, testing her nature and patience. One day, out of the blue, she asked:

How do your family cope with your schedule?

Its just my mum and daughter, Linda replied. And were not really spoiled for choice.

How old is your child? Any hobbies?

Six, nearly. Shes a talented little artist. Linda kept Mrs Grahams warning in mind and didnt elaborate.

Bring her along next time. Id like to meet her.

And so Emma began joining her mum at work. Shed sit quietly with pencils and paints. One day, she drew such a true likeness of Mrs Carrington that the old lady had it framed and hung on the wall.

Slowly, they grew close. Linda lost her constant sense of dread.

Mrs Carrington suffered a joint condition that made surgery impossible. During her worst flare-ups, Lindas massages provided limited relief. One night, Mrs Carrington asked Linda and Emma to stay over, offering them a guest room.

Lying in bed with Emmas gentle snoring beside her, Linda allowed herself to imagine living in such a homethe air itself seemed heavy with history and comfort.

The next day, Mrs Carrington felt better. She and Emma had breakfast together. Linda was sent to tidy the studyhousework she was now trusted with.

Dusting trinkets, Linda discovered a weathered photo album and later brought it to the lounge.

Mrs Carrington, may I look?

Ah, those were the days and my glory, such as it was, Mrs Carrington mused. Lets have a look together. I havent opened it in ages.

The three gathered round. First came childhood photos of Hazel. Then Emma suddenly squealed, Look! Thats Grandma! We have that photo at home!

Linda stared in disbelief. On the page was a picture of young Margaret.

How do you have this picture? Linda gasped.

Mrs Carrington narrowed her eyes, scrutinising Linda.

You youre Margarets daughter? she finally said. Well, Ill be. I kept wondering who you reminded me of. Now I see it.

But how do you know my mum? You were friends? Linda pressed.

Of course, Mrs Carrington snorted. We were inseparable in our teens. Shed skip gymnastics, Id sneak out from music college. We grew up on the same street. Both started gymnastics but she had the real talent. I didnt want to play second fiddle.

Why did you lose touch? Emma asked innocently.

We grew up, Mrs Carrington sighed. Your grandma fell for a dashing young coach, Ray. He stuck by me. Margaret was heartbroken and left the national team over it.

Oh shes never told me any of that, Linda whispered. But you had the same surname back then?

No, I was Lewis. Rays surname was Carrington. He became my first husband. We divorced after three months, but I kept the name.

From then on, Linda could think of nothing but reuniting the old friends. The opportunity came a few days later.

Mrs Carrington needed Linda and Emma for another overnight stay. Emmas nursery had an early trip, so Margaret was asked to pick her up.

Margaret turned up in her patched old coat. Mrs Carrington was getting ready for bed, but wheeled herself to the hall where Linda was packing Emmas art supplies.

Whos that? I wasnt expecting anyone, Mrs Carrington snapped.

Evening, Hazel, Margaret said coolly. Not that Im pleased to see you.

The feelings mutual, replied Mrs Carrington. Lifes knocked you about, I see.

No more than most, Margaret replied. At least I have a daughter and granddaughter. Not much use are all your marriages now, are they? Got anyone left?

At least I had the chance to try. You never did change your name, did you, even after everything?

Margaret suddenly smiled.

Oh, Hazel you still dont get it. I followed your career. Was proud, honestly, to see you become a star. I never did you any wrong. Remember that anonymous call five years ago?

Mrs Carrington paled.

When you were being courted by that gold-digger, the drama group actor Margaret went on. He was boasting to a friend how hed have you put in a care home and live here with his mistress. I overheard him backstage. So I rang you, disguised my voice. That was me.

So it was you who warned me? Mrs Carrington gasped.

I never managed to hate you. Always pitied you instead. Artistic souls are different. But that time, I had to act, Margaret sighed.

Mrs Carrington looked down.

You saved me, you know, she said quietly. Hed completely fooled me. After your call, I hired an investigator.

Good for you, Margaret nodded. Now, we must go. Emmas sleepy.

Wait. How are you living now? Mrs Carrington pressed.

In a bedsit, after they split up the old house-sharing block. Not as grand as here, but we manage, Margaret answered.

Enough of that! Mrs Carrington suddenly declared. Youre moving in here tomorrow. Too many empty rooms in this place. Emmas room needs to be proper, anyway. Dont arguewe have a lot to talk about. Who knows how long weve got? I already know my times short.

Margaret slumped onto the bench.

About eight months, the doctors say.

What? Is it cancer? Mrs Carrington paled.

No, my heart. But theres no money for surgery, Margaret said tiredly. You cant save up for that at my age.

Well get it sorted. Youre moving in, end of. Well take it from there. And dont try to refuse. I owe you, you know. I still regret stealing Ray from you.

You might as well mention handsome Pete from school while youre at it, Margaret chuckled. Well go home tonight, decide tomorrow.

My driver will drop you off. Tomorrow well fetch your things with Linda, Mrs Carrington decided.

That night, Mrs Carrington couldnt sleep, peppering Linda with questions about Margarets health and recalling their youth with regret, admitting shed wasted her life chasing empty things. Her friends intervention had touched her deeply.

Within a week, the townhouse was bustling: delivery couriers brought wallpaper samples, furniture catalogues, swatches and lamps. Mrs Carrington oversaw the move meticulously.

In the evenings, she and Margaret would sit for hours over tea, sharing stories. When the move and a minor renovation were done, Mrs Carrington announced over dinner:

Margaret, Ive spoken to a doctor. Your surgerys in two weeks. The surgeons a wonderful young man, the son of a professor. Please, try not to charm him too much.

You got me a spot? But how? Margaret was flustered. But why?

There was no spot. Im paying privately. Theres no time to wait. Youre going. Emma needs her grandma fit and well.

Hazel, you shouldnt spend so much

What do I need money for now? Cant take it with me. Its settled. Youll have the operation, Linda will care for you, and Ill look after Emma. Besides, your daughters massages do me wonders.

Two weeks later, Margaret was in a private room in one of the best hospitals in London. Her surgeon, Dr James Wainwright, was a rising star, son of a distinguished professor, but determined to make it on his own. He was kind and straightforward. Watching Linda with her mother, he once said:

Honestly, I rarely see such warmth in families. Your mums a lucky woman. Id say any husband would be too. Or child.

Its only a daughter Ive got, Linda blushed, but she means the world to me.

Im sure she does, James smiled. My own attempt at marriage didnt last. My wife thought she was marrying into a fortune, not expecting a starter flat in a new city. Our love didnt survive it.

Im sure youll find the right person, Linda said softly.

Perhaps I already have, James replied almost in a whisper, turning away.

Linda found herself looking at James differently too. He wasnt the dashing sort like Tom, but his calm strength, dignity and empathy were unmistakeable.

Margarets recovery took about a week. The whole time, Mrs Carrington coped as best she could and watched over Emma. The girl now called her Granny Hazelshe felt utterly at home.

Outwardly, Mrs Carrington seemed fine, but in private, night after night as Linda gave her a massage, Linda saw how hard the old ladys body worked just to keep going. Even in her motorised chair, movement was harder every day.

One evening before bed, Mrs Carrington said:

Its time you stopped working as my carer.

Are you getting someone else? Linda panicked.

No, silly. Why would I need that with a house full of people? Mrs Carrington laughed. I want you to train as a proper massage therapist now. On a real course with a diploma. Think you can manage it?

Of course! Linda grinned. But its so expensive

Consider me your fairy godmother, Mrs Carrington smirked. And having a live-in therapist is a perk for me. Ill pay for your full rehabilitation massage qualification and any further courses. Just dont let me down.

Linda gladly agreed. Mrs Carrington more or less took them all under her wing, but Linda was determined to stand on her own feet. She knew the investment would pay off.

Her main tutor was Mr Samuel Alexander, an imposing, experienced teacher who singled Linda out as an especially gifted student. At the diploma presentation, he surprised her:

Are you familiar with the Vanilla Spa?

Of course. Everyone dreams of working there. Its the best in the city and still fairly new.

Im its owner, he smiled. Decided to go into business myself. Will you come work for me? We focus on rehabilitation after surgery or injuries. The jobs tough: needs strength, skill, empathy. I trust you.

Linda simply nodded, trying not to cry with happiness.

From then on, Linda threw herself into learning, and Mr Alexander funded part of her next modules, calling it a scholarship. She soon had a job at Vanilla, working morning shifts, then spending afternoons with Margaret and Mrs Carrington, and taking Emma to art class.

Within six months, it was Linda herself that new clients asked for.

Her friendship with James, the surgeon, blossomed. What started as friendly chats became something deeper. He had moved to London hoping to be a lead surgeon; now he wished for a life outside the hospital as well. The three of them would go for walks, to the theatre, parks, or the zoo.

Margaret returned to work, but Mrs Carrington increasingly needed to rest. Her pain grew, and treatment only helped a little; Lindas massages brought brief relief at best.

James began referring more rehab patients to Linda; many heart patients especially needed gentle yet firm care to regain muscle after illness. Linda dedicated herself to studying cardiac rehab, and she and James always had more to discuss.

James was regularly over at the houseLinda and Emma now felt it was home tooand even got Mrs Carringtons stamp of approval.

Dont you dare let my girls down, Mrs Carrington growled at him with mock severity.

That year, their odd little family found something theyd all missed: belonging. They learned that sometimes friendship and hope can be found in the most unexpected of places; that the wounds of the past may begin to heal when kindness meets courage; and that family isnt just who were born to, but also the people who choose to stand together, no matter what.